


I See You

by Colette_Capricious



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coming In Pants, First Time, M/M, Wincest - Freeform, voyuerism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 17:43:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colette_Capricious/pseuds/Colette_Capricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>I'm sitting across from you<br/>And dreaming of the things I do<br/>I don't speak you don't know me at all<br/>For fear of what you might do<br/>I say nothing but stare at you<br/>And I'm dreaming I'm trippin' over you</p><p> - I See You (Mika)</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. I'm Sitting Across From You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sitting across from you  
> And dreaming of the things I do  
> I don't speak you don't know me at all  
> For fear of what you might do  
> I say nothing but stare at you  
> And I'm dreaming I'm trippin' over you
> 
> \- I See You (Mika)

It’s not like Sam doesn’t know the rules. On the rare nights they go out separately, if one of them brings someone back to the motel, they leave one shoe in front of the door. Just one, so there’s no mistaking it for something else.

So, Sam really only has himself to blame when he walks in on Dean sprawled out in the ratty loveseat, legs spread to accommodate the black-haired tattooed beauty on her knees in front of him. 

The night air sweeps in behind Sam, curling past his body and brushing against Dean. He’s not sure if it’s the whisky swirling in his veins, the pleasure building between his legs, or the look in Sam’s eyes as he just stands there, hand on the doorknob, but when the woman starts to pull off at the touch of the cold air on her naked back, Dean stills her with a hand on her head. “Don’t stop, baby. Feels so good,” he whispers, not looking away from Sam.

He groans as she takes him even deeper, her hand not on his cock, but pushing his legs even wider for the audience she can’t see but knows is there. Dean slides further down the chair, braces his feet on the floor and rolls his hips lazily up into the warm, wet heat of her mouth. Sam’s eyes flick down to the girl’s head, then sideways to where Dean knows Sam can see them perfectly in the mirrored closet doors. That view is why Dean is in the chair in the first place.

Dean turns to the mirrors, too. He can see his cock pushing past her blood red lips, see the ring in her lower lip glinting as it drags against him when she pulls up, her black-nailed hand dragging after, chasing her mouth. The traffic noise from the highway outside doesn’t cover the panting moans escaping Dean’s mouth and the obscene wet sounds from the girl. Dean risks a glance up in the mirror and catches Sam’s eyes burning into his. He sees Sam’s hand, white-knuckled around the doorknob.

As long as Dean doesn’t look at the flesh and blood Sam, it’s okay; the scene in the mirror no more real than the images on a television screen. The girl - Eden, that was her name - Eden tries to watch the show too but Dean’s grip on her head won’t let her move that far. She pulls off, but keeps her hand moving. “Oh, no fair,” she says wickedly.

Sam flinches at that, eyes starting to flick away from the mirror. Dean sees his weight shift as if he is going to move. Then a slick finger sliding behind his balls and right up against his entrance forces a wavering groan from him and Sam’s eyes snap onto Dean’s. He can see Sam’s chest heaving, and Dean’s free hand comes up and over his shoulder to clench on the back of the loveseat.

“Do it,” he pushes out between clenched teeth. 

Two fingers punch into Dean, more than he was expecting, and he can’t stop the yell that comes out of his throat. The girl chuckles around his dick and Dean sees Sam’s reflection shudder.

She is relentless, fingers hard and twisting inside Dean, running over his sweet spot like she has map to it. Mouth tight and hot around him, tongue doing wicked, wicked things to him. And Sam’s attention like a spotlight burning all over Dean’s body, dragging from his eyes, to his chest, to his cock disappearing into the girl’s mouth. Dean can’t stop the moans and curses rolling from his lips. 

“Oh fuck, fuck. Please.” He pushes down against her fingers, up into her mouth. She’s moaning too, higher pitched whines mixing with his as she twists, trying to find anything to rub against, both of her hands busy on Dean. 

Sam takes a half a step in, fingers clenching and unclenching in a fist like he can just feel them slipping up into her from behind. He turns his head from the mirror, looks at Dean from across the room for the first time since he came in, and that’s it. Dean’s gone as soon as those heavy-lidded almond eyes lock on his.

“Fuucck!” he yells, hips thrusting up and twisting into the girls mouth as she swallows around him, then slamming back onto her clever, clever fingers. She pulls off him with a wail, shoving her free hand into herself over and over as she comes hard, Dean’s orgasm still pulsing onto her face.

By the time Dean comes back to reality, she is panting against his thigh, hand still moving slowly between her legs. The door is closed and Sam is gone.


	2. Dreaming of the Things I Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could it be you fell for me?  
> And any possible similarity  
> If it's all, how would I know?  
> You never knew me at all but I see you
> 
> \- I See You (Mika)

They don’t talk about it in the morning. Not a surprise. And it’s not like Dean wants to talk exactly. He doesn’t know exactly what he does want. But he wants something. Can feel it crawling under his skin.

After the girl had left, he'd lain awake in bed as long as he could, watching the door, until the alcohol-and-sex fog dragged him under. He’d never heard Sam come back in, but he must have at some point, because there he is. Wet from the shower, toothbrush clenched between his teeth as he leans against the doorframe, watching Dean grapple with the morning.

“Bobby called,” he says, walking back into the bathroom. Dean hears him spit. “Says he’s got a job. Wants us to come there.”

“Okay,” Dean answers, rubbing his hand across his face, trying to separate this morning Sam from the memory of last night. He looks into the mirrors across the room as if that moment might be burnt into them like blast shadows from a nuclear explosion. He sees nothing but himself and the room. Sam’s bed unslept in.

“D’you sleep in the car last night?” He asks, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and sitting up. Coffee. There’s got to be coffee somewhere.

Sam makes a noncommittal noise and comes back out of the bathroom. As usual, the thin motel towel covers nothing. His duffle bag rests on the foot of his bed, and he turns his back to the mirrored closet as he unzips it. 

Dean watches in the mirror as Sam drops the towel and slowly digs through his bag for some clothes. His strong thighs barely conceal the dark weight between his legs. The muscles in his ass clench and unclench as he burrows deeper into the bag. Pulling out a pair jeans and a shirt, (and did it really take him that long to find jeans?) Sam turns his head to the side, watching Dean watching his reflection in the mirror.

 

A hundred miles closer to Sioux Falls, and Sam is asleep. His head is pressed at an awkward angle against the glass, and one knee is wedged into the glove compartment. The other rests against Dean’s thigh.

The thrum of the road vibrates along Dean’s bones, merging with that crackling energy from the morning. It’s keeping him half-hard in his jeans. Not an unusual state of affairs when the sky is blue, the music is loud, and the road rolls out like a dream ahead of him.

Speaking of dreams, it looks like Sam’s having a good one. He’s twitching, one hand scratching lightly, spastically, at his jeans. His leg shoots out, shoving into Dean, and Dean puts his hand on Sam’s knee, trying to ease the pressure off his driving leg, and Sam moans.

Dean quirks one eyebrow and leaves his hand where it is.

Sam’s breathing gets heavier, chest rising and falling strongly. When Dean squeezes Sam’s knee slowly and deliberately, Sam exhales on a moan. Dean risks a glance over, and sees the bulge growing between Sam’s spread legs.

 _Fucking hell_. Dean grunts as he goes from half-hard to almost-fully hard at the sight. He risks sliding his hand down the curve of Sam’s leg.

Sam whimpers as his hips thrust against nothing. The little sounds go right to Dean’s cock. Burrowing beneath the layers of flannel and cotton, he rubs his fingers across his nipple, twisting up the cloth as he pinches at first one, then the other. _Fuck_. He slams a palm against the steering wheel and dares another glance at Sam.

Sam’s face is scrunched up as if he is in pain. Seeing how hard his dick is pressed against his jeans, Dean can understand that. Sam’s cock looks huge crushed up under there. Dean couldn’t see it clearly last night, the light from the parking lot had left Sam mostly a silhouette in the doorway. But now. Now the long length of it pushes straight up Sam’s rock-hard abdomen. Sam’s jeans are almost baggy enough that if Dean reached over, and tugged quick, just like that, the tip might just slip up and peek right over the top, just like that.

Dean yanks his hand away lightning fast as Sam gives a whole-body shudder when the wet tip of his dick hits the air. Dean’s body mirrors his, and Dean has to press tight against his crotch to keep from shooting off then and there.

Dean’s mouth waters at the thought of leaning over and touching his tongue to that slick, hard tip. The Impala swerves over the yellow line as he gets a flash memory of Sam’s ass from this morning. He lets himself wonder how it would have felt if he had given in to his desire to bend his little brother right over the edge of that bed. Show him what he gets for being a cocktease. The fingernail-shaped indents in Dean’s thighs stand testament to how close of a call it had been.

Sam’s whimpers and moans are getting louder now, and his head whips back and forth. Pearly drops are seeping out of his cock at an impressive rate now, soaking the hem of his t-shirt and the black hairs on his belly. _God_ , Sam gets so _wet_. And he’s so close from just a _dream_. Dean wonders if he could get him to come twice in a row just from his cock. Tie his hands behind his back, fuck the first orgasm out of him, then keep going going until Sam was hard and begging again.

Desire cramps like a knife in his gut, and Dean fights to keep the car moving. Sam will wake up if he stops driving, he always has, and there’s no way Dean wants this to end now. He takes a risk and reaches over, running one fingertip lightly over the top of Sam’s cock. Sam lets out a throaty yell and Dean snatches his hand back. His heart pounds in his chest, a combination of arousal and fear throbbing in his veins. Shit, how can Sam still be _sleeping_ through this?

Sam’s panting now, hips straining, and the whimpers resolve into words. Dean turns the radio down as low as he dares to catch the moans coming from his brother’s mouth. He has to get a hand on his cock right now but he doesn’t dare undo his jeans. There’s no way he could do them back up before Sam noticed.

He presses his palm against the outside of his jeans, and he can’t help but thrust against it. The vibrations from the road, Sam’s breathy moans, and the pornographic images playing across his brain have him about two seconds away from coming in his pants. 

Dean lifts his eyes to the rearview mirror for quick check on traffic, and the car slams into a pothole, thudding down, then bouncing up. 

Sam’s head smacks against the glass and his eyes snap open, catching Dean’s in the mirror. “Dean,” he moans desperately, hand flying to his dick. One hard press and he’s arching off the seat, shooting up onto his stomach and t-shirt. “God, Dean,” he groans as his hands scrabble for purchase on the door and dashboard.

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean curses, hands clenched tight around the steering wheel as he comes helplessly in his jeans.

They still don’t talk about it as Dean takes the next exit to a rest stop, but when Dean comes out of the bathroom stall wearing a new pair of jeans and carrying the old ones, Sam looks right at him, a challenge in his eyes.

Dean smiles. “C’mon Sammy. Up and at ‘em. A few more hours to Bobby’s. You ready for some more riding?”

Sam shakes the water off his hands, grabs his own wadded up jeans, and follows Dean out into the sunlight.


	3. Now the Dreams Won't Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm standing across from you  
> (But I see you)  
> I've dreamt alone, now the dreams won't do  
> (But I see you)
> 
> \- I See You (Mika)

Sam always expects it to be more quiet in the woods at night than it is. You’d think a couple of hundred nights spent sleeping outside would have disabused him of that notion but, despite appearances, Sam can be a slow learner sometimes. Like with Dean. Even though Dean Winchester is Sam’s best subject, one he’s studied his whole life, sometimes he still gets things wrong. Like how far he can push Dean. He thinks - no, he knows - he’s pushed Dean just a bit too far over the last day and a half, and he can tell by the wicked glint in those emerald eyes, that tonight Dean’s going to make him put up or shut up.

Sam has never been more grateful for the fucked-up dynamic between them than he is right now. This scenario, fucked up as it may be, will go the same way things have been going for most of their life. Sam can wheedle, suggest, beg, or rationally explain why they should do something, but it’s up to Dean to make the final call; to shoulder the responsibility of the decision for good or ill. Sam knows it’s pathetic of him, but he really needs Dean to make this one, massive call. He can’t risk getting it wrong.

They’re sleeping in the Impala for a couple of hours until it’s light enough that Dean feels safe taking Baby back down the mountain. The night air coming in through the open windows still carries the warm pine-needle scent of the day underneath the cool, wetter scent of the evening. Sam sits in the back seat, back propped up against the door on the passenger’s side, legs stretched out across the bench seat. Dean mirrors him in the front seat, one hand tapping the bottom of his beer bottle against the rim of the steering wheel, the other draped across the seatback, strong fingers hanging down and lightly caressing the leather in a sweeping arc that Sam can’t stop watching.

The job Bobby had for them was more of a delivery than a hunt. It had taken them a couple of hours to drive to location, do the ritual at sunset, and deliver the offering to appease the restless spirits. Sam’s feeling the affects of the adrenaline letdown and he knows Dean must be, too. They both had been looking forward to a good kill. Maybe a nice long chase and clean fight, the two of the moving together like a dance. Something, anything, to break this tension in the air, to push this constant low-level awareness of each other’s bodies back to a more familiar channel.

But that hadn’t happened. And now, after the supplies are put away, the sandwiches eaten, and the job debriefed, it was just them, the scritching of Dean’s fingers and the endless croaking of the tree frogs. Sam licked his dry lips and used the lip of the beer bottle to push back the urge to blurt something out into the night.

“So, Sammy, what do you want to do now?” Dean asks from the front seat. The full moon casts plenty of light for Sam to see Dean’s tongue curl into the mouth of his bottle and flick back out. “The night is young, and I’m not feeling particularly sleepy. How ‘bout you?”

Oh,Dean’s voice is dangerous. More dangerous than those restless spirits. Sam would follow him into the dark like a will o’the wisp and never look back. He shakes his head silently, sees Dean’s narrow smile, tightening eyes. He clears his throat and tries again. “No,” he croaks. “No. Not really tired.” His voice sounds soft in his ears but Dean hears him all the same.

“Okay then.” He swallows the last of the beer and carefully places the empty bottle on the floor. His hand stops its repetitive sweeping and he hooks his thumb over the seat, fingers pressing one at a time into the leather. 

Sam watches the tips turn white as they press in hard, then turn pink as the blood flows back, and he imagines them pressing into his skin, pictures the small oval bruises they might leave behind. 

The seat creaks as Dean turns towards him. “How about some truth or dare?”

Sam almost whimpers as his stomach drops and his balls tighten against his body as all the blood rushes out of his brain. It shouldn’t have that effect on him. It’s something they’ve done a million times to pass the endless hours on the road or monotonous days trapped in nameless hotels. But he knows this is different. This is Dean making the decision for him, deciding to forge ahead with this huge thing that hangs in the offing, and yet leaving him a way out, a way to stop it, at the same time. It’s such an amazing, perfect, masterful Dean way to handle it, to handle Sam, and Sam realizes that there is nobody on earth, heaven, or hell that he trusts more than Dean. And _god_ he wants this, he wants this with every cell in his body. Has wanted it for a long, long time.

Dean’s looking at him, waiting patiently for an answer. It’s easy for Sam to smile up at him, heart in his eyes, “Yeah, Dean, sounds great.”

Dean’s exhale and muttered _good, good_ lets Sam know he isn’t alone in the effect this is having on him, and that helps calm the fluttering of his chest. As the nervous sparking dies down, Sam can feel more of the languid arousal that’s starting to seep through him, can feel the connection building between them. He’s half-tempted to just crawl over the front seat and onto Dean, and finally get those fucking lips on his. But this feels good, too. It feels good to draw it out. To give in to the seduction of the warm night and Dean.

Dean sits up and pulls two more beers out of the cooler. He opens them both and hands one back to Sam and they share a smile as they clink the glass necks together. “Okay, Sam-I-Am, truth, or dare?”

No contest. It’s way too early in the game for dare and Sam can’t wait to see what Dean wants to know. “Truth,” he says, pushing back against the door, letting his leg fall down onto the floor. He sees Dean’s eyes flick to the vee of his legs and back up again. 

Dean meets his eyes and smirks. “Hmm. Well, after that little show this morning, I can’t help but wonder. How big, exactly, is that monster hiding in your pants?” He points his beer bottle at Sam’s crotch, just in case there is any doubt about what he was asking.

Sam laughs delightedly. It’s just so damn Dean. Any lingering hesitation he’s had is gone now. It’s his turn to smirk as he drops his hand to his crotch, fingers reaching down to the base, thumb stretched up to the top of his bulge. “About this big,” he answers. “For now.”

Dean’s eyes get darker and he licks his lips, biting the bottom one quickly. “Good answer,” he says with an approving head tilt. “Your turn now.”

“Truth or dare?” Sam prompts.

“Truth,” Dean answers quickly, rolling the bottle between his palms. He pulls his knees up, pushing himself higher up against the door.

“Did you fuck that girl after I left last night?” That question has been on the tip of his tongue all day.

Dean pulls the bottle up for a long swallow, holding Sam’s gaze as he does. “Be rude not to, don’t you think?”

“That’s not an answer.” Sam tenses, pulling away from the door.

“No, it's not.” Dean shakes his head slowly. “And, no, I didn’t.”

Sam sighs and relaxes back against the door. “I didn’t think so. Good.” _Fuck_. He sees dark amusement in Dean’s eyes and he knows he’s given Dean some kind of signal he was waiting for.

Dean drops his hand over the back seat, palm landing heavy and hot on the inside of Sam’s knee. “Truth or dare, Sammy?” he purrs, fingers scratching along the seam of Sam’s jeans, head rubbing against the window glass as if he needed the sensation.

Sam watches Dean's chest rise, nipples pebbled under the thin t-shirt, when Dean arches the slightest bit off the seat. Sam’s breathing hitches and he has to move, has to shift to relieve the pressure of his jeans against his erection. The moonlight paints Dean’s face in stark shadows, his eyes bright and wide, his lips soft, shiny where he’s bitten them, and his jaw strong. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Sam is struck by just how unfairly gorgeous Dean is. How can anybody expect him to be the _one_ person unaffected by that beauty just because they’re brothers? If anything, they should have expected him to succumb _first_ , to be worn down by the relentless pounding of the sight, sounds, smell, and (oh god) taste of Dean all around him for almost every day of his life.

The spread of Dean’s hand reminds him that he was supposed to being saying something. 

Dean slides his hand further up the inside of Sam’s thigh and grips. He tugs at Sam's leg, pulling him inexorably towards him. “Truth or dare, Sammy. Forget how this works?”

“Dare,” he blurts out. “Dare,” he repeats, softer, as Dean smiles. 

Dean sits up and slides his hand right up against Sam’s crotch, his fingers tightening spasmodically as Sam pulses hard against him. “Fuck”, he whispers as Sam grunts, fingers gripping into the seat. “God, Sam. I dare you to get out of this fucking car and let me fuck you on the hood.”

 _Thank God_ , Sam thinks in some sort of blasphemous prayer as he presses Dean’s hand harder into his cock and grinds out a “Fuck, yes.” He doesn’t think God usually grants requests for gay incestuous sex but thank God anyway.

They scramble out of the car, peeling off overshirts as they go. Dean fumbles for something that Sam really hopes is lube as he stumbles out. If not, well, Sam can work with that. But he really hopes it is.

The meet around the front of the car and Dean surges against Sam and hauls him up until he’s sitting on the hood, legs resting on the bumper bracketing around Dean’s hips. He always forgets how damn strong Dean is. The Dean’s hands are on his face, clenched in his hair, and Dean’s mouth is on his, and Sam forgets everything except the feel and taste of Dean.

Dean’s kissing lives up to the promises his lips make and then some. Nipping and licking along Sam’s lips, dipping into this mouth with teasing flicks. Instead of being forced back with the demanding attack he was expecting, Sam finds himself leaning forward, whining in the back of his throat for more, trying to pull Dean deeper in. Dean opens and sucks Sam’s tongue into his mouth. Sam’s eyes roll up and his thighs clutch at Dean’s hips. Each draw on his tongue feels like it’s pulling at his dick. He can’t help the whimper that escapes when Dean pulls off, and he feels Dean smiling against his mouth. _Fucker_. Making him this close to begging for it just with a kiss. 

Sam pulls Dean tight against him with his legs, grinding their cocks together as he slides one hand down the back of Dean’s jeans. They both moan at the contact. 

“Bitch,” Dean taunts as his hands slip under Sam’s ass. He leans over, forcing Sam to reach back and catch himself on his forearms to avoid landing flat on his back on the hood. Dean rolls his hips against Sam’s, strong hands keeping Sam’s ass lifted off the car. Feet scrabbling for purchase on the slick bumper, all his weight on his arms and elbows, all Sam can do is lay there and let Dean move him how he needs.

The hard slip and thrust of their cocks against each other is maddening through the denim; bordering on painful and yet not enough at the same time. “Dean, fuck. Come on,” Sam begs. He wants to touch Dean but can’t. Wants to move somehow but he can’t. He’s at Dean’s mercy and it’s beyond hot. And then Dean starts talking.

“What, Sammy?” he whispers open-mouthed against Sam’s neck. He bites at the tendon there. “Want me to touch you? Make you come? Want to come for me?”

Sam can’t answer, can only moan, and with a quick jerk, Dean yanks Sam up tight against him, holds him there perfectly still, the only movement the pulsing of their cocks against each other, and Sam realizes it wasn’t a rhetorical question. Okay. Dean wants begging? Sam can do that. “God, yes. Please, please, Dean.”

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean groans, hands resuming their thrusting and rolling. Dean can feel the trembling in the rock-hard muscles of Dean’s arms where they press against his body. “Gonna make you come. Watching you, coming in your pants. Hottest thing I ever saw. So fucking hot, little brother.”

Sam always knew that one day Dean and his fucking mouth were going to be the death of him. There was never any doubt that it was going to happen, he just never pictured it happening _quite_ this way. All of his muscles tense as Dean pushes and pulls against him. Mouth and tongue hot against his skin, fingers digging into his ass, bruising just like Sam had imagined. When Dean starts begging for him to come, begging for Sam to “Let me fuck you, Sam. Got to. Got to get inside you, Please,” Sam can’t hold on any longer. He drops flat onto the hood, dragging Dean down on top of him. He just hangs on to Dean, shuddering and pulsing against him, beyond speech. He’s vaguely aware of Dean pounding his fist against the hood as he comes hard against Sam.

When their hearts stop pounding and they have control of their bodies again, Dean rolls off Sam and they lie side by side of the hood of the car. Sam scrunches up his face as he plucks the soaked material of his jeans away from his skin. 

Next to him, Dean lets out a breathy laugh. “Dude, that is nasty.” He makes a matching grimace at the mess cooling rapidly in his jeans. “Still, worth it though.”

“God, yes,” Sam agrees enthusiastically.


End file.
